Satinalia
by mediaeval-thotte
Summary: One-shot to accompany my DA:Origins retelling, The Lion and The Light and The Bloom After The Blight. King Alistair and Queen Florence celebrate their first Satinalia after the defeat of the Blight.


The citizens of Ferelden's capital needed little excuse to celebrate in the year after the Fifth Blight was ended. Still shocked by their deliverance from the Archdemon and the Darkspawn army – a threat which they had not known was coming until the horde was almost at the city wall – they seized every occasion and marked it with joyous abundance. The bringing in of a bounteous harvest at the end of Kingsway was a reason for celebration, as was the completion of the repairs of Fort Drakon and the city wall. News that the new queen had safely delivered a pair of plump and healthy babes was met with jubilation and nationwide festivities. The taverns threw open their doors and revellers celebrated the birth of Taron and Theodora with mead, mulled cider and spiced brandy. Clever innkeepers capitalised on the occasion by selling a new concoction known as the Theirin: a combination of golden ale and rich port wine.

As winter drew in and the days shortened, the citizens of Denerim turned their minds to new occasions to mark. Having come so close to death and destruction over the past year, they found themselves filled with a new appreciation for life. The approach of Satinalia – always a popular holiday – was met with especial anticipation after such trauma. The lampposts were decorated with crimson ribbons, paper Mabari were folded by children and perched on windowsills. Oranges, imported from Antiva, were dried out and stuffed with cloves before being hung from ceilings. Each district made preparations for a feast: over a dozen would be held throughout the city.

Customarily, gifts were also exchanged during the occasion of Satinalia. Even poorer families chose to engage in this custom, meaning that often children were sent out to seek seasonal work and odd jobs to raise some extra funds. There was plenty of it around: tavern keepers needed assistance collecting bottles and tankards, butchers and bakers were making constant deliveries, every hearth in the city required frequent restocking.

Since so many of Fereldan's great noble families flooded back to the city during special occasions, there was also work to be found within their retinues. The Arl of Amaranthine – not a Howe, but a Cousland son, the new Arl of Redcliffe and the Bann of White River had all arrived within a week; all requiring assistance with their horses, dogs and possessions. Most coveted of all was a position within Denerim Castle, to serve at the table of the royal family themselves. The new Theirin was as popular as Maric the Saviour had once been, and his near-twin in image. The people were also fascinated by – and oddly protective of - the Theirin's redheaded queen, who had slain the Archdemon and ended the Fifth Blight. Not only this but she had done so while five months burdened with child, thus inadvertently scribing her name in the annals of Fereldan history.

Yet the staff of the Royal Palace had been depleted during the Fifth Blight, and the castle steward found himself in need of additional assistance over the festive season. Guillaume van Pylus, loyal retainer of the Theirins for the past three decades, ventured down to the marketplace three weeks before Satinalia to seek out some reinforcements.

And thus it was that Matilda, daughter of Mathias, found herself recruited into the ranks. At seventeen years old, she was the youngest and easiest to spare. Her father, who was ailing and could no longer work, sorely needed the additional income. Along with a dozen other similarly impoverished children, Matilda accompanied Guillaume on the half-candle journey up to Denerim Castle. The new servants all crammed themselves obligingly into the back of a cart, while the slight, silver-haired steward perched up front.

The Royal Palace - which had always loomed over Denerim like a stern but benevolent protector - seemed far more intimidating as they drew closer. It was constructed entirely from dark basalt, an ominous and uneven silhouette on the horizon. There was no mistaking it for an Orlesian pleasure palace of glass and lofty balconies: this was a fortress, a military bastion built to withstand the ages. Great banners sporting the crimson and gold colours of Theirin and the sigils of Denerim and Ferelden hung from the battlements, each one a dozen feet in length. Guards with pikes bristled on the towers, packs of Mabari and their handlers patrolled the outer walls.

 _No need for you to be frightened,_ Guillaume had reassured his alarmed passengers, stifling a smile. _It is a sight meant to strike fear into the hearts of Ferelden's enemies._

The older man then relented, taking pity on his nervous passengers.

"I assume you know of our queen, the lady Florence?"

The passengers nodded: who had _not_ heard of the Hero of Ferelden, Blight-Ender, Turner of the Tide? Even children were aware of the young Cousland's part in the defence of their nation. Out of every five infant girls born in Denerim over the past six months, three had been named _Florence._

"Well." The steward lowered his voice, speaking in conspiratorial tones. "When she and Alistair Theirin rode up here for the first time, the lady Florence expressed dismay at the _unnecessary size_ of the Royal Palace. She claimed that it was _perfectly possible_ to live in a one-room dwelling, regardless of whether you were a prince or a pauper."

There followed an astonished silence as the young passengers mulled over this revelation. Eventually, one plucked up the courage to speak.

"But…but… ain't she a teyrn's daughter?"

Guillaume van Pylus smiled to himself, casting an eye up at the Cousland banner hanging alongside its Theirin counterpart.

"She wasn't always."

* * *

Matilda and the others were soon put to work in various parts of the palace. Although all of them had hoped to catch a glimpse of the royal family, they were assigned to work in the gardens, the stables, the kennels. Matilda was working in the laundry, washing the heaps and mounds of linens that accompanied the several hundred residents of the palace. It was not exciting work, and she often ended up grubbier than the pail-water. Yet it paid well, and she was able to send a good purse each week to her sickly father.

On one otherwise uneventful evening, the quiet of the servants' quarters was disturbed by a red-faced girl bursting in, flustered and almost tripping over in his excitement.

"Aaah!"

"Are the Orlesians coming?" demanded a particularly grumpy Mabari-handler. "Stop yer screechin'!"

"I _saw_ them! In the flesh!"

Matilda sat up on her narrow bunk, heart seizing in her chest.

"Which ones?" she demanded, eagerly. "Him? Her?"

" _Both_ of them," the girl replied, struggling to catch her breath. "Well, they're never apart, are they? Where he is, she is. Everyone knows that!"

"Little ones too?"

"Aye, the twins and the babe they took in. All of 'em wrapped up in furs, on their way to Chantry service."

"What were they _like?"_ Matilda asked next, pleating the blanket between her fingers in her excitement. "My dad says he's the spit of old Maric, the king."

"He's _very_ handsome," agreed the girl, while the Mabari handler rolled his eyes. "Tall and with shoulders broad as a cart-axle. Gold hair, and he was laughing at something. Had his arm tight round his wife."

"And what was _she_ like? The _Hero of Ferelden!"_

"Littler than I expected. But I think the tide itself would stay on the beach if she were looking at it. No wonder he couldn't keep his hands off her."

"Oh! And the babes?"

"Fat and jolly, all three of 'em."

* * *

Some weeks later, Matilda had been re-assigned from the laundry to the kitchens. Satinalia was now only a single day away, and preparations for the royal feast had begun. Great slabs of gingerbread hung ready to be cut into various shapes, meat cured over the summer was rolled in spices and stuck with cloves. The buttery was already emptied, barrels of mead stacked up against one wall of the great hall. The kitchens, located in the natural caverns that ran beneath the castle and ventilated by several shafts cut into the cliff-face, were a hive of frenzied, scented, over-heated activity.

In the midst of the hustle, Matilda had just scrubbed the last of a great pile of dirty pots. She leaned against the wall, allowing herself a brief moment of respite as she dried her damp hands in her apron.

At that moment, she heard her name being called in imperious tones by the head cook; cutting through the sizzle and hiss and roar of the cauldrons.

"Tilly! Tilly, come 'ere. Got a job for you!"

Matilda dropped the folds of her apron and obediently ducked around the corner in response to the summons. The no-nonsense, iron-haired and steely-eyed northerner, rumoured to have once killed an Orlesian _chevalier_ with a saucepan, had little patience and would not tolerate a wait. Matilda avoided two sweating dwarves manhandling yet another barrel of ale down the passage, weaving her way through the chaos until she had located the formidable figure of the head cook.

Within seconds, a large silver tray was deposited into her startled hands. The tray bore a platter of raw turnip – each slice carved into the shape of a fish – and a flagon of mead.

"This is for the royal bedchamber," instructed the head cook, already turning her attention to a sizzling cauldron of broth. "Collect the empties while you're up there."

Matilda almost dropped the tray in a mixture of alarm and excitement, her heart leaping into her throat.

"The- the _royal b-bedchamber?"_

The head cook shot her a look of irritated disbelief: had she spoken perhaps in Antivan rather than in the native tongue of their nation? Matilda swallowed, changing tack to a more practical question.

"I- I've never been up there. I don't know the way- "

"As it happens, I'm headed up there myself."

The smooth tones of Guillaume van Pylus cut between them; the silver-bearded steward interjecting himself swiftly before the cook could deliver an even more irate response. He was clutching an empty plate, and a half-empty glass of Nevarran shandy; having just finished his own dinner.

Grateful, Matilda shifted the tray until she had a firmer grip on its edges, hoping that her hands would not grow _too_ sweaty in the meantime. She followed the wiry figure of the steward out of the kitchens and up one of the many winding stairs that led from the servants' quarters to the main castle. Guillaume was clearly the man around whom castle life revolved; every tenth step, he was approached with a query or some news. Without breaking stride, he instructed that Bann Teagan's horses be kept in the rear stables, that Bann Reginalda be accommodated as far from the wine-cellars as possible, and that several Mabari be set loose in the long gallery to catch the rat currently residing there.

While Guilluame delivered instructions, Matilda stole awed glances at her surroundings. They were currently headed down a long passageway, lined with stained glass windows the height of a grown man. Although it was evening and no light shone through the jewel-toned glass, the sight of the intricate craftsmanship alone was impressive enough. Royal Guard – complete with their imposing, face-less helms, lined the corridor in pairs at regular intervals, clutching pikes and utterly motionless.

As they reached a wide, carpeted stair, Matilda took advantage of a quiet moment to make her own tentative enquiry.

"Ser?"

He glanced swiftly over his shoulder and quirked an eyebrow at her.

"Is there – is there any _rules_ I should follow? With the king and queen? I… I don't know how to curtsey. I don't want to _offend."_

He chuckled: a rich, and vaguely non-Fereldan sound.

"This isn't the court of Celene Valmont, child. I'm sure that the Empress insists on being served by men walking backwards, their foreheads touching the ground – but we have no Orlesian pretensions here. King Alistair and his queen do not expect such obsequience. Simply enter and be polite."

Matilda nodded; a fraction more reassured.

They reached the top of the stairs, and were greeted by a vast tapestry of an unfortunate rabbit being set upon by a pack of gleeful Mabari. The Royal Guard made no sign that their presence had been acknowledged; but it was quite clear that every movement in the corridor was under their intense scrutiny.

Just then, a small, laughing group exited from a set of double doors halfway down the passageway. Two of the men bore the characteristic Cousland crimson hair, although one was shorter and stockier and the other lanky as a willow tree. They were accompanied by an elf, lean and muscled, whose platinum hair shone almost silver in the torchlight.

"Are you retiring for the night, my lords?" Guillaume asked, inclining his head eloquently.

"Fergus is, because he's old and dull," replied the taller redhead cheerfully, which earned him an elbow in the ribs from his brother. "Ouch! Zev and I are going to lose some more money with the Arl of Redcliffe."

"Speak for yourself, _mon amor_ ," added the elf, archly. "Unlike Finian, _I_ intend to finish the night with heavy pockets."

"Because you _cheat!"_

The taller Cousland and his elven companion continued on down the passageway, exchanging quick-fired witticisms as they went. Smiling, the stockier redhead stopped at the next set of double doors, which were carved with a pair of curved laurel wreaths.

"Teyrn Fergus," Guillaume enquired, lowering his voice discreetly as they approached. "Is it a… _suitable_ time for visitors?"

There was a wry edge to Fergus' responding chuckle.

"Aye, the coast is clear. The babes have only just been put to bed."

The door steward, who had stood to attention on the approach of his master, knocked gently at one of the large wooden doors. Matilda gazed up at the entrance – which was almost as impressive as the doorway leading into Denerim's Grand Chantry – and wondered about the meaning of its various engraved symbols. She recognised the Theirin lion, the Denerim wolf and the Fereldan symbols of fish and Mabari, but there were also older patterns on the frieze of the door that she could not identify.

"Alamarri," murmured Guillaume in an undertone as the steward discreetly nudged open the door. "A thousand years old. Come."

The chamber within was surprisingly austere for a royal residence. It was spacious and high-ceilinged, the eaves spanned by dark wooden beams. A vast hearth crackled away in one corner; on the opposite wall, a leaded glass window gave a spectacular view of the Denerim harbour in the bay below. The bed was low and wide, raised on a stone platform. Hanging from several chains was a vast, wheel-shaped candelabra constructed from spiked iron. Bearskins and wolf-pelts were strewn liberally throughout the chamber: across the flagstones, atop the bed and draped from the chaises.

Yet it was also undeniably a chamber occupied by a young family. A vast oak crib stood beside the bed, decorated with carved Mabari pups. A makeshift line had been strung from a suit of Maric's armour across to the dresser, from which a selection of tiny woollen socks dangled. A pile of grubby linens rested in one corner; a fresh new set stood nearby.

On first entering the room Matilda panicked, not knowing in which direction to bow her head. The king was not reclining on his bed like a Tevene emperor; he was not standing beside the dresser with noble brow elevated; he was not gazing pensively down at his kingdom through the leaded bay window. Instead her gaze fell on two long-legged Mabari, perhaps six months old but already almost full grown; sprawled near the crib. Despite their languid poses, their ears were pricked and their dark eyes fixed on the new arrivals.

"Your majesties," Guillaume said softly, considerate of the slumbering infants tucked into the crib.

As the steward spoke, he subtly directed Matilda's attention towards the hearth. Contrary to the serving girl's expectations, the king and his queen were cuddled on the bearskin before the hearth like a pair of childhood sweethearts. He was seated behind her, with his arms around her waist and his chin on her shoulder; she was busy soothing an unseen, grumbling infant. Matilda stared, but all she could see was the back of the Hero of Ferelden's head; crimson hair of such length that the ends swept the floor.

"Darling," the king said, glancing over her shoulder. "It's your turnips. Stay with Taron, I'll fetch them."

The young Theirin pecked his wife on the top of her dark red head, paused for a moment; then brushed her hair to the side and pressed a more lingering kiss to the side of her neck. The queen turned her head to smile at him, and Matilda caught a glimpse of a finely hewn profile: a sculptor's line of a jaw and an up-tilted nose.

Then the king rose to his feet, and Matilda thought it was a little like seeing a mountain unfold itself from the earth. He was the tallest man that she had ever seen in person, and had shoulders broad enough that he could strap himself to a cart and drag it if he so wished. Unlike most men of the Landsmeet he was clean-shaved; the handsome and honest features so similar to paintings of the young Maric that they might have been twins rather than father and son.

As he strode towards the steward and the gaping servant girl, a baby popped his head over his mother's shoulder. He was olive-skinned and golden haired like his father, and had the hugest, most inquisitive grey eyes that Matilda had ever seen. Crown Prince Taron – the thirteen week old heir to the Fereldan throne – gazed at the visitors with naked curiosity, his fingers clasping absent-minded fistfuls of the queen's loosed hair.

The king came to a halt before Guillaume and Matilda, flashing both an easy smile.

"Thanks for sorting this, Guillaume. The turnip is the only thing that helps Flo with the nausea. Did you manage to find somewhere for Teagan's horses?"

"Aye, your majesty," the steward replied, reaching into his tunic for a sheaf of parchment. "Tomorrow's Satinalia arrangements have also been finalised. Shall I inform you now, or wait until the morning?"

"Might as well let us know now," Alistair Theirin said cheerfully, lifting the flagon of mead and taking a gulp. "Go on, let me guess: we'll be on public display from dawn to dusk?"

There was no rancour in the king's tone: he was used to being in the eye of the people. Guillaume smiled, inclining his head.

"The Chantry service – jointly led by Sister Leliana and the Mother Superior – will take place in the morning. This will be followed by a feast here at the palace, which will be attended by the Landsmeet and their families. Evening activities will include a lantern service and a memorial for the departed."

As the steward talked, the queen rose to her feet before the hearth; hefting the fat little baby onto her shoulder. As she turned to face the doorway, Matilda felt her breath catch in her throat; for the Hero of Ferelden possessed a beauty that would make even beasts of the field stop and stare.

"Gollum," the queen said, in her characteristically soft and throaty voice. "Gwollum. The leftovers of the feast- "

"- will be donated to the alienage and to the orphanage, as you requested," finished Guillaume, gently. "Arrangements are in place, my lady."

Matilda noticed two things about the queen straight away: firstly, that she spoke with the simple, rustic cadence of a peasant, and secondly, that there was a swell of flesh protruding beneath the linen nightgown she wore.

The king immediately deposited the flagon of mead back onto the tray. Striding to his wife's side, he lifted the plump and drowsy baby from her shoulder; carrying him over to the crib. With the little prince tucked beside his sister and adopted brother, Alistair Theirin then returned to his queen; putting an arm around her shoulders, before returning his gaze to Guillaume.

"My wife must have the chance to rest if she needs it," he said, blunt and uncompromising. "That sounds like a long day, and she tires easily."

The queen tilted her remarkable face up to her husband, full mouth curving in protest.

"When I was with child last time, I was gathering the armies and preparing for battle," she breathed, needing to tilt her head backwards to counter the foot in height difference between them. "I'll be fine tomorrow."

The king took her face in his hands, gazing intently at her as though there was no one else in the room. He then kissed her on the forehead, the nose, and each cheek in succession until she giggled, sounding more like the girl of two decades than the queen of a nation. He then kissed her smiling mouth, framing her fair features with his fingers.

"Last time, sweet wife, I didn't know," Alistair Theirin said to his queen, stern and earnest. "Now I do, and I'm going to take care of you, whether you like it or not. Where are those turnips?"

Guillaume took his leave with a murmur to Matilda that she ought stay and collect up the empty platters and tankards. Matilda obediently began to move about the bedchamber, hunting down silverware and sneaking sideways glances at the royal couple from the corner of her eye. The queen was now perched on the edge of the bed and the king was kneeling before her, unwinding a leather strap from her slender knee. She was whispering something to him, her hair hanging loose in thick crimson ropes; he nodded as he listened, rubbing his fingers in slow circles about the stiff joint.

Watching them, Matilda could well believe the stories that the king's adoration alone had awoken his then-mistress from the catatonic state she had been left in after the final battle. There was a connection between them that was almost palpable; the air heated by a sizzling _frisson_ of mutual emotion. One was rarely out of the arm's reach of the other; even as he massaged the stiffness of some old injury from her knee, her fingers brushed through his hair, caressing the unruly tuft at the front.

 _I love you,_ Matilda glimpsed him mouth to her; the queen returned the sentiment with equal fervour.

Matilda found herself lingering over the collection of the empty tableware; not wanting to depart from the presence of her charismatic king and sweet-faced, soft-spoken queen. She slowed her pace, plucking up each discarded spoon as though it were spun from fragile Orlesian glass.

Just then there came another knock at the door; the Mabari pricked up their ears once again.

"It can't be _more_ Satinalia presents," the queen breathed in dismay, gesturing towards several stacks that had been piled near the bay window. "I can't believe there are so many _things_ in the world. Have _we_ sent presents to all these important people? Oh! Will they invade Ferelden if we forget to give them a gift in return?"

The king laughed, fastening the leather band tight around her knee and rising to his feet.

"Possibly," he replied, then hastily continued on seeing her alarmed face. "I'm only joking, my love. I imagine Eamon has sorted all of that out. Remember we had to sign all those bits of parchment a few weeks ago?"

His wife grimaced: she had found the repeated writing of her name extremely laborious. Indeed, some of the gifts from Ferelden would be from Alistair and _floranse,_ or Alistair and _florenz._

Unfortunately, it _was_ more gifts. Two young squires staggered in, heaving large burlap sacks in their wake. The pair of Mabari clambered lazily to their feet, ambling across to the sacks. Nosing within the burlap, they gave each sack a cursory sniff before – satisfied – withdrawing.

"Don't bother unpacking them," Alistair called, seeing the squires preparing to descend to their knees. "I'll sort them out later. Take some time off."

The two boys looked at one another, then back at their master in hope and slight disbelief.

"Your… your majesty?"

"Enjoy the rest of Satinalia Eve," the king repeated, mildly. "Spend it with those you love most. That's how it ought to be spent. It's how _I'm_ spending it. Tonight and every other night."

His queen reached for his hand and tangled their fingers together, bringing their clasped palms to her breast and holding them there. Alistair Theirin lowered his impressive height to sit beside the redheaded Cousland on the bed, putting his free arm tight around her shoulder. He kissed her on the cheek and she beamed at him, solemn face lit up like a Satinalia candle.

Matilda hardly dared to breathe, tip-toeing about the room at glacial pace. She hoped that they would not notice her; that she could continue to bask in the reflected heat of their mutual adoration for as long as possible. Matilda's own mother had died when she was too young to remember her, and the girl had never before witnessed such raw and unrestrained love.

"Speaking of Satinalia, my dear," the king said, pecking his wife on the nose before rising to his feet. "I know that we said that we wouldn't get each other anything, but I couldn't resist. Just a moment- I'll fetch it- "

As the Theirin crossed to the door and conferred quietly with the manservant on the other side, Matilda plucked up the courage to approach the Hero of Ferelden herself. The empty platter rested on the blanket; it was an excuse to view the young Cousland queen _up close._

Hardly daring to breathe, she shuffled forward, risking a glance upwards. Immediately, she felt her heart seize in unexpected panic – the Slayer of the Archdemon was _staring at her._ The queen had huge, wide-set eyes the colour of rainwater, thoughtful and framed with dark lashes like a Mabari. Moments later, Matilda realised that she was looking at her wrist, around which a length of woven rope was knotted.

"You're from a fishing family," breathed the queen, stretching out a finger to touch the length of rope. "I used to wear this, too. I lost it when I was in the Circle."

Matilda noticed that the back of the queen's small hand was marked with strange, milk-pale scarring; as though something vastly powerful had passed through her fingertips and mottled the skin in its wake.

"Yes, my lady," she replied, hoping that her voice was not much of a squeak. "My pa was a fisherman, before 'e hurt his back and couldn't go out on the boats no more."

"Oh," said the queen, her eyes clouding over with sympathy. "I'm sorry. What does he do now?"

"Making hooks and weave rope," Matilda answered, in awe that she was engaging in conversation with the actual _Hero of Ferelden._ To her surprise, it was not as terrifying as she had thought: once one was no longer quite so intimidated by the queen's astonishing beauty, one quickly grew accustomed to the soft-spoken and gentle mannerisms of the girl beneath the mantle of renown. Matilda remembered vaguely that the Hero of Ferelden, although born into wealth, had been raised in poverty and obscurity; and had had greatness thrust rather brutally upon her through little choice of her own.

"Is he good at weaving rope?" the queen asked, absentmindedly scratching the head of one yawning Mabari. "Did he weave that?"

Matilda nodded, extending her wrist. Florence Cousland leaned forwards, inspecting the knotted rope closely. She traced the woven strands with a finger, her brow furrowed.

"This is good rope," she observed solemnly. _"Very_ good. Does he make enough money from it?"

This time Matilda shook her head, unable to stop herself from grimacing.

"Not really, my lady. But- " she hastened, not wanting to sound ungrateful. "We're just happy to be _alive,_ your majesty. Thank you so much for… for everything that you and your husband did for us."

The queen flashed her a shy smile, tucking a strand of loose crimson hair behind her ear.

"We were happy to help," she said, in her quiet, distinctly hoarse cadence. "I'm glad that we were able to make a difference."

Just then, the king reappeared in the doorway; his face bright with anticipation. He was holding something bundled in his arms, the contents obscured. The Mabari rumbled a greeting, but the object in his arms bore no interesting smell so they made no further enquiries.

"Sweet wife," he said, striding across to the bed as Matilda swiftly retreated. "My darling girl. Happy Satinalia, my love."

The king knelt before his wife and presented her with the object in his arms. The queen stared into her lap, her eyes wide and her full lips parting in surprise as she unfolded a handwoven blanket of cream and dun lambswool. It was large, and soft, and Matilda wanted to bury her face in it immediately. The border was stitched with a frieze of leaping fish, each one cunningly detailed with tiny scales.

"You were cold in the carriage the other morning," the king explained, as his queen gazed, enchanted, at the marine-themed border. "I won't have you catching a chill, baby."

She threw her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers; Matilda glanced hastily away to give them some privacy. A few moments later, the royal couple parted, pink-cheeked and breathless.

"I have a present for you too," the queen informed her husband solemnly, stroking his cheeks with her fingers. "I'll fetch it. Fergus has got it."

"Shall I get it, sweetheart? So you can rest?"

"No! I'll get it."

"Sure?"

"Mm."

Now it was the queen's turn to clamber upright and pad barefoot across the room towards the door. The king watched her until she had vanished into the corridor, unblinking in his focus. Then, taking another gulp of mead, he crossed to the crib to check on the sleeping infants. Matilda watched him adjust the blanket for several moments until he was satisfied; ensuring that all three babes were adequately covered.

Suddenly, the Mabari pricked up their ears in interest; angling their noses towards the door. The queen re-entered, clutching a basket carefully in both arms. The basket contained a small blanket, which wriggled and squirmed within the straw circumference.

Alistair strode towards the door, surprised eyebrows lodged in his hairline. He halted before the basket, peering down at the squirming blanket.

"Darling, what's this?"

"Your Satinalia present," his queen explained, turning an earnest face towards him. "For you!"

The king drew back the blanket to reveal a black and tan Mabari pup with flopping ears and a lop-sided grin. It was about four weeks old, still small enough to fit in cupped palms.

Alistair Theirin inhaled unsteadily, a sudden brightness in his eyes. He reached into the basket and drew out the pup, holding it gently against his chest. The pup licked his hand and gazed towards his face with huge, liquidous dark eyes.

"A little brother for Cod and Lobster," his wife explained, solemnly. "He's from a Highever litter. He should be ready to keep in a month or so."

"Maker's Breath, Flo," said the king, his voice thick with emotion. "I- I don't know what to say. My precious girl. This is – this is… it's beyond words."

The queen beamed; she had known that her husband would be ecstatic with a Mabari of his own. Alistair pressed his lips to the pup's velvet-soft head, then replaced it gently in the basket before brushing his thumb swiftly over his eyes.

"I'll call him Barkspawn," the king decided, tucking the blanket gently around the pup. "It'll make me laugh, and cause Eamon to roll his eyes. Maker, he's perfect. _You're_ perfect, Flo."

The Theirin gestured for the steward hovering at the door to enter, then instructed him to take the yawning pup back to its mother next door. Then he reached out to lift his wife in his arms; hefting her off her feet in a single, effortless motion. She squeaked in delight, curling an arm around his neck as her hair swung loose, falling everywhere in wild, crimson abundance. Without pause, focused determination writ across his handsome face, the king of Ferelden carried his wife purposefully towards the bed.

"Lass," murmured the steward, eyeing Matilda through the door. "You'd better take your leave. They won't notice anything other than each other now."

Matilda, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder, retrieved the tray and the empties; making an unobtrusive exit from the royal bedchamber.

* * *

 _Epilogue:_

 _The next day Satinalia dawned bright and cold; the sky cloudless and the wind from the east biting. The people of Denerim woke late, then crowded onto the streets to glimpse the royal family as they rode to the Grand Chantry for the traditional morning service. They did so in impressive procession, preceded by the members of the Landsmeet clad in their dynastic colours. At the rear of the throng, flanked by Royal Guard in their faceless helms, came the royal family in their carriage. They were clad in furs, babes included, and the queen wore a white and tan blanket over her lap._

 _The king and queen did not notice Matilda as she gazed up at them from the crowds; she was one face amongst hundreds. Matilda thought that the king looked handsome, and the queen looked beautiful, and that they both seemed very happy indeed._

 _When Matilda returned home to her infirm father; she was startled to find him in tears with a sheet of creamy vellum clutched within one hand. She recognised the elegant calligraphy of chief steward Guillaume van Pylus, officially extending a royal contract for rope-making to Matilda's father. The offer was a generous one, and would more than triple the family's income._

 _At the bottom of the letter, in a distinctly different, childish and sloping hand, were scribed the following words:_

" _from one Fishermans Daughter to another. happy Satinalia."_

* * *

OOC Author Note: Decided to do this fun little one-shot for Satinalia/Christmas :D Hope you enjoyed this glimpse into Flo and Alistair's life back at the palace! They've settled into their roles well :) Anyway, I hope everyone has a lovely Christmas, or enjoys some time away from work at least! And has a happy new year too. I chose to write it from the perspective of the servant girl since Flora's story is 'done' now - she's achieved her goals, found her happy ending and her new family - so it seemed fitting to do it from someone else's point of view rather than hers.

Some exciting news of my own that I thought I would share: my husband and I are expecting our first baby in June :) NADOLIG LLAWEN! (Merry Christmas in Welsh!)


End file.
